


Hotshot

by xsnarksthespot



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, Paintball, The girls are minor characters in this one, U.S. Navy SEALs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has been on special assignment for six months. Porthos is a bit of a mess, but paintball is a good distraction and it <i>is</i> Halloween. Thankfully, d'Artagnan knows something he doesn't.</p><p> <br/><i>Porthos stares at d’Artagnan as if he’s dropped trou in the middle of church service. </i></p><p>
  <i>"Lemmie get this straight. You managed to reserve the best field at The Garrison. For four hours. On fucking <i>Halloween</i>.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotshot

**Author's Note:**

> In this one, they're all American Navy SEALs who regularly dress up in geeky masks and shoot paint at each other. Notes at the end for mask references and a few paintball terms. And, FTR, I've never played paintball. I have played laser tag and a tons of console shooters, though?? As for the Navy SEALs, everything I know is from wikipedia and cheesy tv shows like Hawaii Five-O, so please forgive any lazy researcher mistakes.

Porthos stares at d’Artagnan as if he’s dropped trou in the middle of church service. 

"Lemmie get this straight. You managed to reserve the best field at The Garrison. For four hours. On fucking _Halloween_.” 

“Yup.”

“Did you sell your soul?”

“I have _connections_.”

Amused suspicion crunches the skin between Porthos’ eyebrows. “You mean, you have access to Athos’ bank account and you’re as relentless as a rabid chihuahua.”

The kid doesn’t even miss a beat. “That too.” 

After a few seconds of stuffing gear into his rucksack, d’Artagnan turns to face Porthos. The sheer weight of his smug shit smile tilts his head all the way to the side. “Now are you done being jealous of my superior people skills or do you want to end up with rented gear just so you have something to blame when you get your ass handed to you?”

Porthos exaggerates an offended gasp, but the noise tumbles back out as a laugh. The truth is, he is a little jealous. But mostly impressed. They’re all friends with Treville, the retired Navy SEAL who owns The Garrison, but Porthos had called as soon as he heard the paintball park had an amazing set-up for the holiday, and their old trainer had pretty much hung-up on him. After telling Porthos he should be embarrassed about his poor planning skills, that is.

“How much _did_ this cost me exactly?” Athos chimes in as he leans against the doorframe. His bag is already packed, ruthlessly efficient bastard that he is.

“Uhh...not that much? Standard rate, plus a little extra,” d’Artagnan says. When he avoids Athos’ stare and tries to skitter past him like a crab before saying anything else, Athos snags him by the straps of his pack. The pup looks over his shoulder, all big eyes and apologetic smile.

“ _d’Artagnan_.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“Jesus Christ, did you bankrupt me?”

“Nooo...” d’Artagnan protests, swivelling around to crowd closer to Athos with his hands clasped in supplication. “It’s not even like that. I just had to work with the people that already reserved the field, that’s all!”

They’re half concealed by the corner, and Porthos is trying to hurry up with his gear, so he can only assume d’Artagnan has that look he gets, when he’s determined to convince Athos he hasn’t royally fucked up. That look rarely gets aimed at Porthos, thank God. Everyone knows Porthos sucks at fending off pleading brown-eyed stares.

Naturally, that thought nudges an image of Aramis to the front of Porthos’ mind, where he’s been hovering close now for six months. Six fucking months Aramis has been on special assignment with the CIA in Mexico and the only thing keeping Porthos from storming Langley has been biweekly updates that his best friend is still alive. Even then, he’s tempted. At least once a day, he thinks about booking a plane ticket and using all of his skills to see Aramis again. It’s not enough to know he’s alive and doing his duty like a good soldier. It’s not nearly enough.

“What, exactly, have you done, d’Artagnan?” Athos sighs. 

It’s enough to force Porthos to swim for the surface, at least temporarily. No doubt the paintball match will poke at his infected wound, but for now, he slings his bag over his shoulder and joins them just beyond the doorway.

“I secured us a prime spot, on the best paintball field in the city, on the most popular night of the year,” d’Artagnan reminds them pointedly. “We just have to share it.” He creeps a step backwards. “With the S.S.”

Porthos groans and Athos makes a face like if he’s smelled something foul. It’s fitting considering the group they’ve “affectionately” nicknamed the Shithead Squadron has all the combined charm of a porta potty in hundred degree weather. They’re practically kids, so there’s never been any actual physical conflict. But there’s been plenty of interest. Porthos would happily knock out a few of their leader’s teeth, if only the Navy wouldn’t frown on one of their SEALs beating the shit out of a teenager. No matter how arrogant and misogynistic that teenager happens to be.

“I know, I know. But think of it this way,” d’Artagnan says pleadingly, “It was going to be hard to fill up two teams anyway. _And_ we get to shoot at them for a few hours.” 

He has a point. Half of their platoon is off on individual assignments. It’s a routine side-effect of having highly specialized skills and being at the beck-and-call of the United States government. Even pulling from their assortment of mutual friends wouldn’t necessarily have given them enough players to keep things interesting. But frankly, it’s the second comment that makes Porthos look sideways at Athos and shrug.

“We _do_ love shootin’ at them.”

Athos quietly grunts, which is probably about as much of an agreement as Porthos is going to get.

“And I bet we can get them to wager on it. Get your money back and then some,” Porthos adds.

That, at least, perks Athos up a notch. Meaning his eyebrows lift and he looks like he’s mulling it over for a moment, before he finally heaves an aggressive sigh and pushes d’Artagnan towards the door.

“Fine. But no holding back this time.”

d’Artagnan laughs, grabs Athos’ bag as they near the door, and hands it to him. “Aye, aye, Commander. We’ll hit ‘em where it hurts.”

Following behind them, Porthos growls out a ‘hooyah’ that’s probably a little more enthusiastic than the situation warrants. But it gets a snort out of Athos, so he counts it as a win.

 

* * *

 

The two-story warehouse is the best field at The Garrison all year round, but Treville has definitely stepped it up for the holiday. From just outside, Porthos can feel the thump of bass and hear low-pitched groaning. Smoke billows out from the open double doors and eerie lighting completes the effect, pulsing across padded walls and inflatable bunkers alike. 

They can’t see much just yet, but there’s definitely a ‘zombie-apocalypse’ vibe going on. Well, zombie-apocalypse meets 1970s disco, but a warehouse run wouldn’t be complete without slightly cheesy special effects.

In the spirit of Halloween, there’s a variety of headgear in the crowd of players. Porthos adjusts his mouthless Predator mask until it sits right, knowing damn well that won’t stop the corded 'braids' from smacking him in the face at the worst moment. It’s worth it, though. He knows he looks intimidating as hell with only a bright blue flag on his bicep to break up the black from head-to-toe. It doesn’t hurt that he has to field cash offers to buy the mask off of him every time he brings it to a match, either.

He glances over at Athos, who’s double-checking that his hopper sits snug into the top of his gun. His mask is pushed back up over the top of his head, but Porthos knows the muted white Punisher skull painted across the face all too well. If he didn’t love his brother-in-arms so much, he’d have stolen the mask ages ago. That, and the fact that Aramis had it specially made, keeps his thieving hands at bay.

d’Artagnan’s mask is predictably nerdy and patriotic at once. Red and white stripes cover the lower half, and a white star sits against a blue background across the forehead. He has it tucked under one arm and he’s talking to Constance with their heads tipped closed together. She’s already got her Terminator mask on, but Porthos can hear her muffled laugh from here.

“Porthos, look at these assholes,” Flea whispers, bumping his arm with her elbow. Turning towards the Shithead Squadron, Porthos isn’t surprised to see they all have the same mask - dark red with a fanged yellow smile. On its own, the mask is creepy. Seeing it repeated five times over only adds to the effect, much as Porthos hates to admit it. 

There is one odd man out, though. Probably a last minute pick up to keep the teams even. The sixth guy rests against one of the open double doors and quietly checks over his gun. His head’s down, but it’s easy to see the simple medic’s cross etched in a splash of red paint on the side of his helmet. The rest of the mask looks like it’s been through a meatgrinder. Might have been full white to start, but now it’s all battleworn greys and blacks.

Porthos tries not to love it, but fails spectacularly.

“Are you weak ass bitches _ready_ or what?” the leader of the S.S. shouts.

Flea rolls her eyes so hard she nearly tips over. “God, I can’t wait to shoot him in the face,” she grins at Porthos, who laughs as she tugs on her mask. Unlike his own, it’s simple. All blue and clean lines, but with a golden Wonder Woman crown across the forehead. 

Porthos knocks his forehead into hers for good luck.

“Hey, spread the love.” Ninon steps up next to them, spartan-style mask slipping into place just in time to get a growling headbutt from Porthos too. She chuckles and then there’s a round of headbutts between the entire group. d’Artagnan teasingly grumbles at Flea for being too enthusiastic about it. Laughing at that, Porthos misses the medic stepping away from the door like he wants to join in.

“Jesus Christ. Any time today,” the Second-Shithead-in-Command whines.

Porthos shoots him an amused glare - wasted with the mask, but fuck if it doesn’t make him feel better anyway. “Don’t be in such a rush to get another beatdown, kid. We got all night.”

It’s disappointing that the guy doesn’t rise to the bait. He just makes a scoffing noise and follows his leader to the entrance. 

“We’re taking the backside starting point,” the leader says. Athos’ mask turns Porthos’ way, and he doesn’t have to see his friend’s face to know there’s an annoyed squint there. Usually this is something teams flip for, because the backside is a better place to hide a sniper or two. There’s several dark nooks on the upper level with a view of the ground floor.

Still, they don’t argue.

“Go for it. You need the field advantage or this is going to be brutally quick,” Athos says dryly.

“Fuck you, old man!” the kid sneers “Two minutes to set. Don’t cheat.”

Porthos thinks _fuck it_ and lifts his gun, ready to shoot the kid in the back of the head before he can disappear inside. But Athos pushes the barrel of his gun down with a quiet laugh, so he just ends up watching the S.S. head in. The medic is last to move towards the door.

Before the guy can be out of earshot, Porthos calls after him. “Hey! You got shit taste in friends, but that’s one hell of a mask.”

The medic swivels his head slowly towards them and then does something that catches Porthos right in the chest: he turns and bows, with a unmistakable flourish of his hand away from his forehead.

He darts inside too quick to hear the ‘ _oh, fuck_ ’ that punches out of Porthos’ mouth.

 

* * *

 

"You’re dead. You are so dead.” 

“Okay, okay, first of all. That’s technically true,” d’Artagnan says from the floor. He’s just taken a kill shot right in the forehead and their headsets all buzz with a low hum of feedback when he shakes his head. “And second of all, that hardly seems fair! He _made me promise to keep my mouth shut_!” 

“So. Dead.” Porthos’ growl is more laugh than heat. Even though they’re pinned down and it’s just him and Athos left alive, his heart burns hot and happy in his chest. 

Aramis is home. Fucking finally.

Aramis is also the one who has the last two of them pinned down from a sniper’s perch on the second floor, but really, Porthos wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s so excited, his blood feels like a power line sprung free from its moorings, every paintball fired from above another zap of electricity underneath his skin.

d’Artagnan takes a second unnecessary shot in the center of his mask and squawks in surprise.

“Get off the field, loser!” Aramis shouts.

There’s a split second of silence, in which Athos chokes on a laugh and Porthos cackles, but then Aramis’ voice drifts back down to them, gentler, but still loud enough to be heard over the Halloween soundtrack.

“I’m sorry, that was mean. But seriously, get off the field.”

The S.S. has already been cleared away. They’re probably standing outside pissing and moaning about the wait for a new round to start. The girls did plenty of damage to get them there, but none of them are quite as familiar with Aramis’ style of play seeing as he’s been absent for half a year.

And it’s not like Aramis hadn’t tried to take d’Artagnan out before anyone else. Repeatedly. The kid is just fucking quick on his feet and ballsy as hell. Two years in and he’s well on his way to becoming the kind of Navy SEAL people talk about for years after he’s retired.

Course, he’s still ‘dead’.

“Go. Before he starts peltin’ you. We’ll pick this up again _later_.”

d’Artagnan huffs, cleaning paint off his goggles with his thumbs, and hightails it for the exit. Unsurprisingly, Aramis doesn’t waste another pellet. He knows he’s going to need them, no doubt.

“I need to get up there.” Porthos tries to take a peek over the bunker protecting them, but the rush of a paintball over his head sends him back into hiding. Little shit is toying with them. He’s got the perfect angle and all the time in the world to wait for them to make a move. Porthos slides down the bunker and glances back towards Athos.

He doesn’t have to say it. He knows he doesn’t have to say it. Athos just sighs and crouch-walks to the other end. “You’ll owe me for this.”

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos chuckles. 

Moving like the well-oiled machine that they are, Athos jumps out of hiding towards a barrel-sized bunker a few feet away and Porthos waits two breaths to do the same on the other side. Athos almost makes it, dodges the first two shots like a pro. But he ends up taking a third and fourth to the side of his head in such a tight formation that Porthos has to whistle quietly at the beauty of it.

Standing upright with an irritated set to his shoulders that Porthos can see from all the way across the room, Athos sends a half-assed salute towards Aramis’ hiding spot.

In reply, Aramis pings him a third time right in the chest.

“You’re such a pain in my ass,” Athos grumbles.

“He can’t hear you,” Porthos reminds him.

“I was talking to _you_.”

Laughing at that, Porthos hunches along the side of the building, in and out of cover, but shielded by the upper level. Aramis will have to change positions if he wants another shot while Porthos is on the ground floor, and he can’t, not fast enough to fire on Porthos before he hits the blocked in stairs. He’ll move to the far side instead, maybe with enough time get in a shot as Porthos rushes out of the stairwell.

Sure enough, there’s only an inch between Porthos’ shoulder and the splatter of neon that paints the wall beside him. But that inch is all he needs to get back under cover. Now, between the bunkers, smoke, and lights, Aramis can only guess what path he’ll take to cross the warehouse’s second floor. They’re on even ground, and Porthos hears a dramatic groan from the across the room to seal that fact.

He’s chuckling when Aramis apparently finds the channel his headset is on and taunts warmly across the line. “A good friend would’ve let the returning hero win.”

“Don’t whine just cause it’s fair now.” 

Aramis’ smile doesn’t actually make noise, but Porthos can feel it all the same. He dashes two barricades closer before adding a cranky, “Besides, you’re an asshole.” 

“Aw. Don’t be angry, Porthos. I wanted to surprise you.”

Porthos thinks ‘ _just me?_ ’ But he resists saying it out loud. There’s too good a chance it’ll come out heavy with all the things he’s left unsaid for years.

Instead, he just sighs. “Well, mission accomplished. Now I’m gonna kill you.”

He gets a snorted laugh in response, and his name, breathed out like a prayer. Peeking through a crack between two bunkers, he spots the barrel of Aramis’ gun, tipped down like he’s distracted, and the top of his headgear.

“So,” Porthos murmurs. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

“Well, I don’t know. How much did you miss me?”

There are so many answers to that. It’s the perfect excuse to babble, over a staticky headset, from a safe distance. He knows he’s been a coward where Aramis is concerned, and for a damn long time, but this is something else. And Aramis’ lazy tone doesn’t help matters any.

Doesn’t mean he can resist blurting out the first thought in his head, though.

“Felt like I was starvin’, ‘Mis.”

The quiet inhale over the line lets him know that Aramis understands. Not that he had any doubts. They’ve had a decade at each other’s backs. Thousands of hours. Who knows how many words. All the minutes where words weren’t even needed.

Aramis knows him. Aramis knows what his childhood was like. His teenage years. And about Kandahar, too. He was on the rescue team, for fuck’s sake. Aramis _knows_ the things Porthos has had to survive and what the word _starved_ really means to him.

He immediately regrets saying anything at all, though. It’s a good day. Aramis is _home_. And here he is dragging them both through his messed up head. 

“Still gonna kick your ass,” he growls, using the distraction of Aramis’ surprised laugh to weave through the smoky space between three barriers without getting spotted. He’s only ten feet away now and he can still see the top of Aramis’ mask. 

In fact…

Porthos narrows his eyes suspiciously and tracks his gaze across the surrounding area. The one moving light in this corner of the warehouse swings back towards the corner. It only lasts a fraction of a second, but he spots the glint off the shorter barrel of a smaller back-up gun. Technically, they’re not against the rules, just frowned upon. And when it comes to a group of Navy SEALs they’re not even that. Porthos would’ve judged Aramis more if he _didn’t_ have a second gun and a sneaky ass plan up his sleeve. 

Admittedly, he might have judged him still if he hadn’t caught on, but none of them were exactly good sports about losing.

Porthos pulls off his helmet, adjusts the headset still hooked over his ear, and quickly removes a shoelace from one of his boots. Tying it to the helmet, he crouches near one corner of the L-shaped barrier Aramis is kneeling behind.

“You are far too quiet, my friend.”

“I’m waiting to hear how much _you_ missed _me_.”

Aramis huffs a laugh. “I’d rather tell you to your face.”

“Yeah? Will there be visual aids?”

“It’s more of a hands-on demonstration.”

Fuck. Porthos almost loses his concentration completely, but he pulls it together and swings with the shoelace, sending his mask out towards the nook Aramis’ own helmet is occupying. There’s the subtle “fwip, fwip” sound of two paintball shots, and maybe they hit their mark. Porthos doesn’t know, though, because he’s bounding over the corner of the bunker like a running back leaping over the defensive line to score the winning touchdown.

Aramis apparently sees this blur of a shape about to tackle him, because he turns towards it. He’s only got about enough time to widen his eyes though, before they’re both bouncing off the padded wall behind him and crashing to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, Porthos!” Aramis’ laughter immediately gets smothered as they wrestle for the upper hand. This, though, this is Porthos’ wheelhouse and they both know it. It’s not long before Aramis is pinned to the ground with his hands trapped above his head and Porthos’ knees on either side of his hips.

“I think…,” Aramis pants, “...that you’ve forgotten the objective of this game. You’re meant to _shoot_ me, you brute.” 

His hair’s a wild riot, half in his grinning face and half a tangled mess. Porthos grins back, then shifts his grip so he can keep Aramis’ wrists held with one hand and push his hair out of the way with the other. He needs to see his face. It’s not enough to feel Aramis struggling for breath underneath him, to know he’s finally back where he belongs.

Porthos isn’t entirely sure anything is ever really _enough_ when it comes to Aramis. As much as he might try to tell himself it is. As much as he’s convinced himself over the years that what they have is too goddamn good to risk, he’ll probably always long for something else. He won’t say something more, because being Aramis’ family is vital to him. There is no _more_. But--

But he _wants_ , too. 

He looks down at Aramis’ face, sweat-streaked from being under the mask and still the most beautiful face Porthos has ever known, and he wants with his whole being. It’s such a stupid, sappy thought, but he can’t shake free of it. 

Aramis’ eyes are wide and watching, like maybe...like maybe he’s caught in the same limbo. His breathing slows, then stops, held trapped in his throat. A heartbeat later, he twists his bound wrists and brushes his fingertips against Porthos’ knuckles. 

It’s such a simple touch really. Almost nothing at all. But a shiver rolls up through Porthos’ body and his eyes slam shut. 

He’d meant to reach for his own back-up gun eventually. Pull it out of the pocket of his cargo pants and hold it to Aramis’ throat. The standard for close-range kills is to just say “point blank”, so you don’t hurt anyone unnecessarily by taking the shot, but Porthos is more of a “BANG!” kind of guy. 

He’d _meant_ to reach for his gun and claim the win with an obnoxious shout, but he slides his free hand back up to Aramis’ and links their fingers together instead. It’s only a slight shift of his body downwards then, until he can bury his face in Aramis’ neck. 

Aramis drags in a breath, right next to his ear. He’s not sure he’s ever heard a sound like it before. Like all of his pent up need’s been encapsulated in a fucking inhale. In _Aramis’_ inhale.

“Porthos...”

Porthos’ reply comes out muffled but laced with affection. “I missed you, you prick.”

Huffing a laugh near the shell of Porthos’ ear, Aramis squeezes his fingers. His lips graze a path against Porthos’ skin before he opens them right against his ear. “I think...I could argue...that I missed you _more_.”

The heated words pull a groan out of Porthos, and just like with everything else, they move as a unit. Their bearded jaws scrape together as Porthos extracts himself from Aramis’ neck, and Aramis twists in his grip to seal his mouth over Porthos’.

It should probably be this gentle thing. This tentative exploration. This giant, fucking _question mark_. But it’s them, and it’s ten years concentrated into one moment. Porthos kisses hard and needy. Pinned or not, Aramis stokes the flames with his teeth and tongue, and the winding of his legs around the backs of Porthos’ thighs.

Porthos pulls back. But breaking the kiss to catch his breath requires unlatching his hands and pressing Aramis’ shoulders to the floor. 

Aramis whines, low in his throat and yet somehow with his whole body. 

“Please don’t stop, please,” he begs, curling his fingers into Porthos’ curls. 

And fuck, even if Porthos possessed an ounce of willpower at the moment and actually thought they should move this out of the warehouse, he wouldn’t have budged. Aramis coiling fingers through his hair and looking up at him with those eyes, those fucking unfair eyes, what’s he supposed to do? _Show restraint_? 

Yeah, no. Porthos’ restraint is in another goddamn country by now.

He hooks his arms under Aramis’s back, reels him in as tight as he can, and captures his mouth again. His reward is an indecent moan that feeds through the earhook headsets they’re still wearing, amplifies times ten, and gets a ravenous growl in return. Aramis leans up into him, fingertips of one hand clawing at his nape while the other reaches down to grab his ass.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t actually need any brain cells to instinctively grind against Aramis. Or to twist his hands up under the layers of his clothes and drag his nails down Aramis’ stomach. No thought whatsoever is required to tuck his thumbs under the waistband of Aramis’ jeans, either. All he has to do is trace the groves of Aramis’ hips and keep going down. 

He’s a soldier. He can follow a _map_.

It’s Aramis that breaks the kiss this time, breathlessly laughing through his teeth.

“As much as it pains me to say it, we absolutely _cannot_ have any kind of sex anywhere in The Garrison. Treville will execute us and mount our heads outside as an example.”

Porthos huffs a laugh and then sighs, long and loud. There’s no question Aramis is right. But God, he wishes he had a good argument right about now. Then again, he’s stubborn, and Aramis’ skin is still hot beneath his fingers.

“Can’t we just--”

Abruptly, Athos’ voice comes over the line like a slap of ice water in the face. “ _No_.”

Turns out the ice water analogy is painfully accurate. Porthos and Aramis both freeze in place.

“...Holy shit, Athos. Are you tryin’ to give us a fuckin’ heart attack?”

“More important point of inquiry…have you been listening _this whole time_?”

Athos sighs. Poor, weary Athos, forever stuck with his own little litter of asshole cats. Porthos can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose all too easily. 

“Christ no,” Athos mutters. “But everyone was getting impatient, so of course it was up to me to find out if the two of you had lost _all sense of decency_ or simply _left altogether_.”

Wheezing laughter, Porthos removes his hands from under Aramis’ clothes and rolls to his back. Aramis snorts, covering his face with both hands.

“Please extend our deepest apologies to everyone,” Aramis chokes out. He sounds perilously close to giggling. “And promise them we’re still wearing all of our clothes.”

“We’ll be out in a second, sir,” Porthos adds, grinning at Aramis in direct counterpoint to the seriousness of his tone.

All Athos says is “you better,” then a loop of feedback screeches through their earpieces like a punishment.

“Ooo, Dad’s mad.”

“We’re definitely grounded,” Aramis replies, dropping his hands away from his smirking face.

Porthos snickers and reaches out to haul Aramis over on top of him, his hands bracing either side of Aramis’ neck for one more kiss. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t a complaint. Aramis smiles against his lips and turns the kiss filthy in a blink.

Pulling away with a crooked smirk, Porthos musters up some mock-outrage. “Oh my God, get off of me. You heard the Commander!”

Aramis laughs and elbows Porthos in the gut as he climbs to his feet. Even then, he holds out a hand to help Porthos up. Instead of taking it, Porthos rolls to his knees and kisses his palm, tracking a heated look up the length of Aramis’ body until he meets his eyes. 

Aramis’ gaze go sharp and he digs a hand into Porthos’ hair, apparently before he can even think about it. But Porthos’ unrepentant grin seems to snap him back into focus.

He shakes his head, tugging on Porthos collar until he rises to his feet. “You...You might actually be evil.”

“Mm. Maybe.”

“I’ll have to do more reconnaissance.”

“Always a good strategy.”

It takes a second - and Porthos crowding closer - for Aramis to uncoil his fingers from Porthos’ collar. “ _Later_. First…” He takes Porthos’ hand and lifts it to press a biting kiss to his trigger finger. “...First we need to embarrass those sad little boys a few more times. It’s our duty to society.”

Porthos smiles, first one corner of his mouth then the other. 

“ _Hooyah_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Paintball terms: 1) Bunkers - the big inflatable barriers that separate the field and give players something to hide behind. 2) Hopper - the container that attaches to the top and feeds paintball pellets into the gun. (I think these are the only two terms I used, but if you spot any others, please let me know.
> 
> Masks (what they more or less look like):  
> [Porthos](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/Predator-3.jpg)  
> [Aramis](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/medic.png)  
> [D'Artagnan](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/capamerica.png)  
> [Athos](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/mike-loh-punisher-skull-mask.jpg)  
> [Constance](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/AIRSOFT-PLASTIC-TERMINATOR-MASK-SILVER-PRO.jpg) (just with black goggle/eye slots)  
> [Ninon](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/mask-rlux-spartan-bf.jpg)  
> [Shithead Squadron](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/shitheadgrin.png)  
> (I didn't have a reference for Flea's mask, I just liked the idea.)


End file.
